A strip of paper through the grass is blown,
I sense it grapples and it yearns to stay;
On a windy street, where can roots be sown?
What if trampled flowers still made us groan,
Or bathing cardinals took our breath away?
I dream it’s there where a root could be sown.
Modern man slaves, his family eats alone;
These sin-stained sidewalks never cease to pray;
When judgement’s coming, where can roots be sown?
What if we worshiped when the crops are grown,
Or the echoes of a songbird shattered the clay
Which strangles the old roots mankind had sown?
Perhaps if modern man had never flown,
Or with the fire of his pride did play,
There would be soil where roots could be sown.
Suppose flesh is gone and he’s only bone,
When all the pretty things have gone astray,
Perhaps for modern man it will be known,
Death, soon, will die herself if roots aren’t sown.
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